


Premium

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 14:57:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11210430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Bard faces the consequences of his unruly appetite.





	Premium

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aprilreign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aprilreign/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for aprilreign’s “Barduil: A creature is feeding and killing in animals in Mirkwood. Either finds out it is it is Bard 'or' already knows it's Bard. Seeing Bard struggling with this new curse Thranduil tries to point out the Blessings and need to be there for his Bardlings. Thranduil offers his blood to give him strength. There is a distinct difference between elvin blood than animal, human or even dwarven, which gives Bard an unbelieveable high XD! Prmopt #10” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/161379570810/au-prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The halls of the Woodland King are every bit as grand as Bard imagined, though he never thought he’d be in them. A part of him knows he should be more worried—he should probably try to run, despite the poor chance of escape; surely his own powers can’t be much good against actual _elves_. And, besides, he still considers himself a noble man, and he knows he deserves whatever fate they bring him to. He’s desecrated their woods, against all his efforts to the contrary. He only hopes he can plead mercy for his children—if he’s to stay in the Woodland dungeons or worse, be killed for his crimes, he’ll need to send aid to them. He prays the Woodland King is merciful.

One of the guards that guides him has told him, surprisingly in the common tongue, that he’s too be taken to that very man. Bard’s accepted it and makes no move against either of the elves that flank him. They both carry spears and tall bows across their backs, clad in leaf-like mail, so much richer than his tattered rags. He feels unworthy to be among them. But he clamps down on his bitterness and tries to hold his head high, and at least take in the striking sights before his inevitable demise. Each chamber brings a new masterpiece. Each step feels as ethereal as it is damning. 

And then, finally, at the top of a long flight of stairs and past windows set high above the forest, the guards come to a stop before grand doors. One takes the oak handle and draws the right one open, and Bard is ushered into a towering cavern of exquisite beauty.

The guards stay behind. The heavy doors fall shut behind him. And Bard is left in a wide, circular basin of raw, hollowed wood, many interwoven branches of which form a ceiling that seems to let in the light of stars. The walls are hung with dazzling tapestries and intricately carved sconces, lit with white flame. Idle furniture carved of wood lines the walls here and there, an emerald rug thrown across the floor, and an enormous, crimson-covered bed sits against the far wall, its curtains drawn back with golden ribbons. The most beautiful thing of all rests between; the Woodland King himself lounges against the pillows. 

Tall and slender, he’s a sight to behold. If Bard still drew breath, he’s sure it would be caught in his throat. King Thranduil, the elves call him, surpasses all the rumours. His long, platinum gold hair falls smoothly down his shoulders, his elegant ears pointing through and a flowering crown set upon the bedside table. A wine bottle sits next to it, and a nearly-empty glass resides in Thranduil’s hand. He wears only a thin night robe, silken and shimmering on the verge of silver, looking as though it’s spun of crystals. It’s held loosely in a sash about his waist, the folds open enough across his broad shoulders to show a peak at his strong chest. His creamy skin calls to Bard like a siren. At least if he is to be killed, this is a more than worthy final sight.

The king watches Bard for a moment, then finishes his wine and sets the glass on the table. He rises from the bed with a fluid grace that would strike jealousy in swans, yet he strolls forward with the stalking power of a feline. If Bard were ever one to cower, it would be now, but he holds himself as bravely as he can. Thranduil stops just before him and lifts one dark brow, icy eyes piercing into Bard. Thranduil’s eyes fall steadily down Bard’s body, drinking it all in, pausing at his chest, his crotch, his thighs—then Thranduil takes a step around Bard, drawling as he walks, “You are quite attractive... for a Man.”

Though the last words make it seem almost an insult, Bard answers, “Thank you.” 

He feels like little indeed, having run ragged in the forest and not brushed his scraggly hair in days, especially next to such a handsome creature, but he accepts the verdict. Thranduil paces around him, coming back to the front and adding, “I have been apprised of your situation.” Bard’s chest tightens, though his heart hardly, if ever, beats in it. “The ravaging of my woods... and your children at home...”

“So you understand why I must feed away from them,” Bard stiffly interrupts, only because he needs it to be known that he isn’t _wholly_ without moral compass. He wouldn’t set about the innocent creatures of the wood if he felt he had any choice or if he could control his cravings. It’s all he can do to cross the lake as it is. 

Thranduil merely snorts, “It does your children little good, when it seems you can hardly sustain yourself enough to visit them at all. You need a higher quality.”

In a swell of confusion and wariness, Bard slowly replies, “I refuse to hurt my fellow Men.”

“I do not suggest Men,” Thranduil counters. “They are far too fragile... but an elf... and a king... I think that could certainly satisfy you.” 

Bard _stares_. If his ears were any less keen, he’d think he misheard it. It doesn’t seem possible, hardly believable, that Thranduil could be insinuating what Bard thinks. That’s no punishment. It’s a _reward_.

As though reading Bard’s thoughts, Thranduil dons a wide smirk, full of pride he fully deserves. He lifts one slender hand to press against Bard’s cheek, as warm as Bard is cold, and draws a smooth thumb across his lips. When Thranduil pushes in, Bard dutifully opens. Thranduil finds one sharp fang at the end and traces its length, even teasing the tip, and it’s all Bard can do not to clamp down and _suck_. He behaves. It isn’t so much for honour, but because he thinks, if he should behave, he may get _more_. And he wants that very, very much. 

He fixes Thranduil with burning eyes, but Thranduil is busy taking in Bard’s mouth, and as he toys with the second fang, he murmurs, “I have heard there is some pleasure to be found in the hold of a vampire. And I am a connoisseur of grand pleasures, Bard of Laketown.”

Bard practically whispers, “You can’t possibly be offering what I think you are.”

“I am,” Thranduil purrs, deep and velvety, full of sensuality, “at least, a small amount... for now. And if you make it good for me... perhaps you will be given the honour again.”

Bard’s never been so hard in all his life. He realizes it abruptly, but it’s been growing since he first saw this magnificent beauty sprawled about in bed. The thought of coming here again, of feeding on Thranduil regularly, is almost too much to take. The animals of the woods couldn’t possibly compare. Bard promises with all sincerity, “I will do my best.” Thranduil nods, smile faintly amused.

And Bard takes it for an invitation. He darts his hand up, quick as lightening, to fist in Thranduil’s hair, every bit as smooth and soft as he imagined. He tugs it, dragging a hitch of breath from Thranduil’s gorgeous lips, and he surges forward, slamming their mouths together with a fierce intensity that would send others sprawling. Thranduil only meets him back, tilting in and gripping suddenly at his shoulders. Bard thrusts his tongue against Thranduil’s lips, pries his way inside, and fights Thranduil for dominance, before shoving his free hand between them to cup Thranduil’s crotch. Thranduil makes a muffled noise against him that Bard swiftly swallows away. He digs his fingers between Thranduil’s legs, the light robe easily giving way for him, and he presses the heel of his palm hard against the bulge he finds there. Thranduil shivers in his arms. 

Thranduil escapes the next kiss to murmur, breathless, “You are not very subtle, are you?”

Bard grins at the half-lidded, lust-clouded look in Thranduil’s deep eyes. He growls, more ferocious than he means, “I want to make your blood rush through veins; I want to feel it swell in my mouth as I taste you.” He gives Thranduil’s cock a hard squeeze, earning another gasp, and sets into relentlessly massaging it. His own blood is rushing just for this occasion, pumping down for the singular purpose of filling his cock. He hasn’t felt such a sensation in what feels like ages. It’s been longer since he touched someone, let alone anyone like _this_. The smell of Thranduil drives him wild. 

He can’t take it anymore and wrenches the robes down one pale shoulder. Thranduil allows the rough treatment, merely holding Bard back, while Bard nudges his face aside and tugs all his hair over the other side. His neck is long, slender, and lightly flushed in obvious arousal. Just the way Bard would want it. He opens his mouth wide, teeth tingling and crying out, and for once, he gives into them without a shred of doubt. _Desire_ clouds all else. He sinks in, piercing the tender flesh and descending, while a rush of hot, rich blood fills his mouth.

Immediately, he knows it’s different. Bard clamps down, sinking deeper than he ever has in any other, closing hard around the skin, not wanting to waste a single drop—the blood is _perfect_. It’s nowhere near the blood of animals. Nor Men, nor the one time he had a dwarf—this is pure, unadulterated _pleasure_ , as good as the light of the Valar themselves. Bard sucks it up with ravenous hunger. He takes great, heaping mouthfuls, while Thranduil shivers and moans in his grasp, now clinging desperately to his back. A final, high-pitched cry of _ecstasy_ makes Bard stop, and he wrenches away while he still can, hurriedly licking up what’s left in his mouth. He savours every drop. And he laps lovingly over the holes he’s left, closing them faster than any before. Thranduil’s body is amazing in all ways. Thranduil trembles, breathing hard—Bard can feel every rise and fall of his strong chest. Bard thinks he might be in love. He’s so dizzy. He tries to let go but finds he can’t. 

Thranduil nudges his head aside. Thranduil’s eyes are so dilated they’re nearly black. He looks at Bard, Bard’s open mouth, down Bard’s body, and up again to Bard’s red eyes. Then he dives in to seal them in another kiss, licking out whatever copper’s left.

Bard’s almost too satiated to have the wherewithal to kiss back. But then his cock twitches in its confines, and he feels Thranduil’s throbbing against his thigh. He returns the kiss until Thranduil parts them enough to spin Bard around and push him.

Bard stumbles backwards. He can’t take his eyes off Thranduil. Thranduil shoves him again, goading him back towards the bed, and breathes, “You will return to your children.” Bard lifts a brow but keeps going. “And when you must feed, you will return to me.” Bard nods. He doubts he could taste any other; they would be dirt compared to Thranduil’s wine. The back of his knees hit the bed. “You will taste no other. And you will give yourself to no other.” Bard nods, agreeing implicitly. Thranduil flattens into him. 

Thranduil purrs, “Good,” and closes in to taste him.


End file.
